


A Fifth of Whiskey

by JimDandy



Series: Souvenir Shotglasses [5]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: During Canon, Family, Friendship, M/M, Mutual Pining, No Plot/Plotless, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-07
Updated: 2020-12-07
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:21:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27931426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JimDandy/pseuds/JimDandy
Summary: “They don't call you ‘pretty boy’ for nothin’.” John shouted over the rising laughter.  This was a sore spot for Arthur, which John knew and Charles could see his victorious grin.--------Two-shot set During canon this time.As always, can be a stand-alone, or read with the series.
Relationships: Arthur Morgan & Charles Smith, Arthur Morgan/Charles Smith, John Marston & Charles Smith
Series: Souvenir Shotglasses [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2018951
Comments: 3
Kudos: 72





	A Fifth of Whiskey

Charles held the wheel steady as John hammered a split spoke back into place. The luxury of having the wagons was nice, not that he had much to haul, but the constant maintenance and upkeep turned Charles off from the idea of ever owning one himself. He sighed.

“Yep, Arthur breaks ‘em, and we fix ‘em.” John sighed too, and Charles smirked. John was one of his few friends in camp. He tended to talk a decent bit more than Charles liked, but he was good company. After Blackwater, and John had been injured, Charles had spent significantly more time alone than usual. Weeks went by, and finally at the overlook, John recovered enough to return to their usual routine of a quiet cigarette in the morning and in the evenings. Charles, having been so independent and self sufficient for much of his life, could never figure out how to tell John he was glad to have his smoking companion back. John, for all he was ribbed for being stupid, seemed to pick up on it, and would accompany Charles more often in his menial chores, which was how they seemed to become the go-to wagon repair men. 

“Mornin’ Charles.... Marston.” He heard drawl out from behind them. 

“Morning Arthur.” Charles answered.

“Mornin’, were your ears burnin’?” John rasped half under his breath and Arthur shot him a scowl before walking off towards the girls wagon. 

Two weeks ago Tilly had ridden into camp after a job with a near full- length mirror. She and Mary-Beth then strapped it on the side of their wagon. It was a small, but much needed, pick-me up for the camp. Charles had seen most everyone stop in front of it at some point. Molly was there multiple times daily, Dutch before a jaunt into town, Mary-Beth did her hair every morning, Charles himself had taken a few glances in it. Arthur seemed to get pulled into it every time he did his morning rounds about camp. 

“You sour faced old bastard.” Charles heard Arthur mutter, and looked over to see him sizing himself up in front of his own reflection, hat off. A hand coming up to touch a particularly nasty bruise he was sporting on his cheek. Charles smiled to himself. With the camp smaller, frayed, he allowed himself to watch Arthur much more closely than he had been. Back before everything in Blackwater, Charles struggled with forcing himself not to look. Now he looked freely. Life couldn’t get much worse than a few near-death experiences, so why not? They had finally broken past their odd dance around each other in Coulter, when Arthur, very aware of his role in camp, had vented to Charles on their hunting trip. It wasn’t surprising that Arthur was that self-aware, he carried the weight of the gang on his shoulders, everyone went to him with their problems, and Dutch most of all. His reluctant but quick pickup of bow hunting was also intriguing, and made Charles wonder what other hidden talents Arthur had, or was just hiding away. 

“Are you preenin’ in that mirror again Arthur?” Came Karen’s light voice.

“Preenin’?!” 

“Aye, preenin’!” Sean, Karen and a few other were making their way from the lake edge. “I see y’ over there starin’ into it nearly every damn day. Battin’ yer eyelashes an’ fixin’ yer hair.” 

Though Arthur was vicious and brutal, and Charles had been on enough jobs with him to see how apt of a ‘butcher’ he really was, Arthur was quite vain. He kept his hair trimmed, beard neat, and often smelled of beeswax and mint from the pomade he used. His clothes kept tidy, even the ones with holes and stains were smoothed and folded carefully into his bedside chest. Most everyone thought he was rather stuck-up, second in command and barking out orders to the gang constantly. Arthur liked to showcase himself as boorish, stupid, and stand-offish, the brute muscle. He mingled lightly with the gang, said good morning to everyone most every day, but he rarely ever was a part of their daily lives. He was prone to listening more than talking, or quietly writing or drawing in his journal off by himself, or sitting with the horses. 

“Alright Arthur Morgan, save some room a’tha’ mirror fer some a’us ugly fuckers, eh?” 

“Sean, will you shut the hell up?” Arthur jammed his hat back on his head and turned to leave. 

“He’s disparaging more than preenin’” Came Hosea’s dry cough from over by the fire. “If ya ever listen to him.”

“Disparaging about what?” Mary-Beth questioned. Arthur screwed up his mouth. Mary-Beth and Hosea seemed to be some of the only people in camp who were spared Arthur’s wry comments consistently. Charles had thought maybe there was something there between Arthur and Mary-Beth at first, but as he observed he found a sweet adoration between the two. They often shared a soft word about a book, or a dance at a party, but Charles realised it more to be a kinship, maybe even a fatherly affection on Arthur's part. Mary-Beth saw Arthur as some sort of hero, and romanticized his actions as such whenever she retold stories. It became more apparent there wasn't anything going anywhere once Kieran started hanging around, and Mary-Beth couldn't hide her giddy smile when he made excuses to buzz around her. 

“Alright, I know I ain’t nothin’ to look at, everyone shut up and leave me alone.” 

“Oh, Arthur!” Mary-Beth scolded. “You can't possibly think that. You’re absolutely gorgeous!” She pulled his hat back off, took him by both hands, and much to Arthurs extreme dismay, marched him around in front of everyone. Arthur had started to go red at this and Charles was fascinated. It wasn’t often Arthur was caught flustered, and judging by the smiles on everyone’s faces, it looked like they were going to take full advantage. 

“Aye English, much as I hate to admit, I’m only the second most handsome man in camp, jus’ look a’that smile.” Sean laughed. 

“I’ve been into town with you before Mister Morgan, and alls I can says is, I’m sure half’a Ventine’d sleep with you if you gave them the chance.” Sadie walked up beside Marty-Beth, thumbs in the belt loops of her new trousers. “And I don't just mean the women half.” 

“They don't call you ‘pretty boy’ for nothin’.” John shouted over the rising laughter. This was a sore spot for Arthur, which John knew and Charles could see his victorious grin. He and Arthur seemed to always be gunning for each other. Arthur especially was relentless, constantly trying to provoke John. 

“It’s definitely those baby blue eyes that do it for me.” Charles found himself chiming in and winked. At this, Arthur went scarlet. The camp was in stitches.

“Okay, ha-ha, y’all had your fun!” He grabbed his hat from Mary-Beth with a curt “Miss Gaskill.” And huffed across camp to sulk and sit on his cot. 

Mary-Beth called after him a few times to no response and gave up with a shake of her head and a “Silly man.” under her breath.

“Nice one, Charles.” John looked back with a grin and Charles shrugged. He couldn't get the image of Arthur, flushed to the back of his neck, out of his mind. But more than that, he meant what he said, and he suspected John knew it too.

\----------

“It’s good to knock him down a peg or two sometimes.” Hosea sat beside Charles at the scout fire while he fletched arrows. He had absently been staring over at Arthur, who still was hiding away in his tent, looking at old photographs, writing in his journal, and glowering at anyone who walked by addressing him as “pretty boy”. 

“Everyone sure jumped at the chance.” Charles smirked. 

“Well think about how often Arthur’s taken the wind out of everyone else’s sails. More times ‘n I can count. And he always has to get the last word in.” Hosea laughed. “He’s just a little sensitive when the tables are turned.”

“Hmm.” Charles nodded. 

“Plus,” Hosea added. “I’m sure John is having a field day.” 

They chatted amicably awhile longer before Hosea stood up with a “Well son,” and patted Charles’ arm. He quite liked Hosea, even if on instinct Charles checked his pockets after every encounter, sly old conman that he was. Hosea did not have time for idiocy, and took no guff. His insights into Arthur and the camp were refreshing. Though he ribbed Arthur more often than anyone else about being a stupid fool, he was probably one of the few people who saw how intelligent Arthur really was. When he spoke, often reminiscing, there was so much fondness and warmth that it ticked to listen to it. “I’m off to try to talk some sense into ol’ Dutch.” He added darkly. “See if he'll listen to an old man's crazy ramblings. ” He gave Charles a nod and a wave before heading off towards Dutch’s tent, phonograph blaring.

Charles sat for a while longer, running the feathers through his fingers, mulling things over in his head. He glanced up to see Arthur catch his eye for a quick heartbeat before he looked back down to his journal. His face still set in a scowl, the lines at the corners of his eyes creased. It gave Charles an idea.

\----------

“Coffee?” 

Arthur looked up from the page he was scribbling on with a frown. His fingers covered in graphite, a few gray smudges on his face. 

“What’d you spit in it?”

Charles chuckled. “No.”

“Poison it?” 

Charles took a sip to prove it was drinkable and offered the cup. Arthur eyed him carefully. 

“It’s a peace offering. Two sugar cubes.” He tired not to wince at the overbearing sweetness. He watched Arthur prepare his coffee many times in the morning. On the rare occasion they had sugar, Arthur kept his pockets full of the stuff, two in his coffee and a few for his horse. A trait, no doubt, picked up from Hosea, who prepared it the same way. The cup was taken, and Charles went to rest against the crates on the other side of the cot.

Arthur turned the cup still suspicious, and lining it up, put his mouth exactly where Charles had drank from and took a very cautious sip. 

“Seems alright…….. Charles….?” 

“I. Hm.” Charles paused, he was staring at where Arthurs mouth still rested against the cup, where his own mouth had been a second ago. He felt a strange truth seep into him then, scalding pins and needless that prickled up the back of his neck, over him, and then like lead into his stomach. 

There was suddenly a loud clang that startled them both and made Charles whip his head around. It was followed almost immediately by cries of “Bill you drunk idiot!” from Javier and “Might as well throw yourself in that fire to roast now you moron!” from Pearson. Charles let out a sharp breath.

“Shit.” 

Charles looked back down to see coffee dripping down Arthurs chin and hands, the page of the journal, still opened on his lap, thoroughly splashed. 

Charles took the cup from him. Burning, sticky coffee still down its sides as Arthur shook his hands off before wiping them on his pants. He picked up his journal, carefully tipping the coffee off before setting it on the table. 

“Gotdammed Bill.“ Arthur sighed under his breath. “ I got a cloth in the drawer there.” Motioning Charles to his night stand as he smoothed out the page as best he could. 

Charles set the cup down and fumbled around in the drawer trying not to disturb the bits of saved newspapers, pictures, cigarette cards- until he felt fabric. He handed it to Arthur who spent the next several minutes hunched over carefully blotting at the page, trying not to smudge the graphite any more than it already was. It was all so careful and delicate, it gave Charles an odd faltering beat in his chest, and a thought crossed his mind about wanting that much of Arthur’s undivided attention on him. He wanted to get closer. 

“Think it’ll be alright?” Charles gave in and moved to peer over Arthur’s shoulder. His loose hair falling and hitting the back of Arthur’s neck. Arthur flinched and Charles could see a flush starting to creep up on his cheeks, darkening the bruise there. 

“It-It’ll be alright…..” Arthur trailed off as he leaned in closer to his journal. Charles could feel his own pulse in his throat. He could almost see the heat coming off of Arthur in waves as the flush deepened. He wanted suddenly to reach up and touch the back of Arthurs neck, just a brush of fingers, just to see the reaction. He leaned in further, closer, to catch a glimpse of Arthur’s now overly showy and deliberate motions of blotting away the coffee. It was the same wild inclination as earlier when he had joined in the teasing. There was something exciting about watching Arthur squirm, especially under his influence, that made Charles’ heart race. 

“Is that…. Is that my horse?” Suddenly looking at what Arthur had been tending to. 

“Wh-oh, yeah.” Arthur shoulders relaxed as he stepped urgently aside, letting Charles see the pages he’d been diligently trying to clean. There were many horses sketched and Charles could identify Branwen, and Old Boy, he even recognised Gwydion, but several times over- sometimes alone and sometimes with Arthur’s new horse- was Taima. Charles pushed his hair back over his shoulder and studied in fascination. Taima grazing, rearing, shaking her mane. When he looked over, Arthur was staring up at the ceiling of the tent. 

“I think I mentioned before, I like appaloosas.” He offered while keeping his eyes averted. “The spots…” He trailed off again and Charles recalled Boadicea’s dark dappled hide, and he felt another twinge in his chest. So much had gone on after Blackwater, had Arthur ever gotten to grieve her loss? They had not even had a chance to burry her, just left her where she fell as they fled. Charles could picture all the mornings Arthur spent laughing and brushing Boadicea, sharing sugar cubes or an occasional peppermint with her and Taima. After the mad dash into the mountains, Charles purposely handed Taima to Arthur, a small act of trust as well as a chance for the both of them to have a moment alone together to mourn, even if it was in a raging blizzard. 

“I’m sorry Arthur.” It came out in a whisper, and Arthur shrugged. Charles started to turn the page of the journal, but Arthur caught his wrist. Neither moved. He felt his eyes drift to Arthurs mouth again, then up to his eyes. Arthur was looking at him, searching his face with a gaze that was painful. Charles want sure if it was his lungs or heart that stopped. Arthur pitched forward a little awkwardly before dropping Charles’ wrist and shutting the journal.

“Habit, I guess.” Arthur looked down, in what Charles could only describe as bashful, and held the journal to his side. For a split second, as he had started to turn the page, Charles thought he had seen his name there. There was something about seeing it written out in Arthur's beautifully flourished script. A silly boyish notion of their initials written together, separated by a heart, like he had seen Arthur and Mary’s once upon a time, gave him a giddy feeling. 

“Would you like to get out of camp tomorrow?” 

“Tomorrow?” Arthur, paused. “No, I can’t. Dutch’s…. got me runnin’ round.” Charles felt himself deflate. Was he projecting his newfound acceptance of his feelings, and maybe Arthur didn't feel the same? No, that couldn't be it. Maybe Arthur really was just shy? Charles was sure he had not been in their younger days- though Arthur had spent that encounter trying to bait Charles into making the first move instead of just kissing him himself. Regardless, Arthur clearly had some sort of feelings for Charles, Charles just needed to figure out what they were. 

“Some other time then.” He gave him a halfhearted smile. “Have a good evening, Arthur.” 

“Some other time.” Arthur agreed. “ And thank you…… Fer the coffee.” He picked up the forgotten cup and took a sip. Smiled. “Two sugars huh?” He motioned his mug in the air towards Charles in a mock toast, his mouth quirked at one corner. 

Charles threw Arthur a salute over his shoulder. He was supposed to relieve Lenny of guard duty in an hour anyway. Might as well start early, take the uninterrupted quiet time to pour over thoughts and talk down some of the more betraying feelings in his head. After all, coming to terms with being in love with someone like Arthur was a lot to get through.

**Author's Note:**

> Work is back to eating away at my creativity and drive, so this was very slow going. Let me be the first to tell you, being a rotten lousy overachiever at a job will send you into an early grave friends. 
> 
> Second chapter intended for this particular snippet of story soon.


End file.
